


sing for me my nightingale

by grandstander



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Confession, Fluff, M/M, im super super proud of this actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 13:50:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9387944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandstander/pseuds/grandstander
Summary: Underneath the armor and the unquestionable strength, there is a poet in the hidden valve's of Xander's heart, and for his muse he could always sing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> finally back with some ryomarx!! im glad you guys seemed to like my first one, and i made this one just as if not more sweet. im such a sucker for soft ryomarx, drown me in it. also i started writing this a week ago and finished it out of spite which, turns out, is my strongest motivation 
> 
> also no proof reading we die like mne

Xander was, at his very core, underneath the unwavering night of his armor, a poet. The Romantics were not lost in him; rather, they made their home in the spaces of his ribs and flowered in his lungs. His heart knew the arts the same way his hands know the weight of a hilt and thrash of war, but in the very private spaces of himself, the small crevices that he was warranted, he knew a wine-line language in the way the Earth knows the change of her seasons.

 

It was fostered in him at a young age by the tongue of his mother who read to him the poets of old as if it were their lifeblood. His studies were rigorous, and Xander is also a man of boundless dedication (so stubborn in this trait, it is his strength and folly) who did not once falter in them, but in the rare moments of self-fulfillment he sought the near melodies of poetry. They were a comfort, and as a child a comfort that allowed him to revisit sweeter memories, and to age with the art allowed it to bleed into him.

 

Love; he knew it well, knew it in his mother's strong resolve, in his father's gaze when he was a child, and he knew it to be a word synonymous with air in the atmosphere of literature. Lovelorn is a word befitting to his knowledge, but foreign to his experience; or, it was. Similar to the make up of his soul, past the cruel hands of fate and ravage of war he found it. Love became a garden within his throat and chest nurtured by the name of a Hoshidan prince, as if he became the sun to such a garden.

 

Xander knew his poems well-enough, some he could even recite word for word, but it is in the euphoric epiphany of love that they burst into clarity. Suddenly, the poems who's rhythmic textures and slow pinning he knew for sentiment now felt as if they were reborn in a new light (or a new _sun_ , so to speak).

 

Slowly, then all at once is how he fell (as the saying goes). In the quiet moments, in the repair, in the recovery from an ache that should not have ravaged their worlds he found himself blooming in the way a rose does. Soft, gentle, slow; it was, of course, without his notice. Not many things escape his notice usually, but that is the thing about love. It happens slowly and naturally, and prospers when it is not guarded by hesitance much like a forest.

 

Ryoma slowly consumed his heart. In small exchanges he bled into Xander, until he became the blood pumping through his body, the light in his veins, the muse of his wish and pen. Xander had written his own poems before, of course, but now he found himself with an endless fountain of inspiration. His pen would work until his hands were sore, and he found himself filling a book quicker than he ever had before. But oh, was it his dearly kept secret; the books he kept would be kept under lock and key, and a word of them never left his lips.

 

If word of them trickled into the ears of those outside of himself, what then would he become? The great high prince of Nohr, known for his strength and commanding presence, could not be withered by the softness he hid so desperately underneath his armor. Despite the fear that the softer, kinder valve of his heart being exposed to the world, he continues on; he knows that this world needs it, needs a gentle lover as much as a strong leader, so he nurtures it in private.

 

Xander's flowery language has slowly, steadily began to seep into the letters he writes to the muse of his heart, Ryoma. It is only gradual, of course, a drop of rose water on a single sheet of paper. But as roses grow, there will be more blooms, and by the end of several months his letters would fit perfectly in the sweet smells and soft colors of elegant gardens. As subtle as Xander tries to be, Ryoma begins to notice (how can he not, really).

 

It is endearing in every right, making the beat of his own heart soften and glow. The tender intimacy of secrecy, of being privy to such a side of the Nohrian prince fills his own heart with a unique excitement and joy. Ryoma is not quite as poetic as Xander, but he tries in his own small ways. He invites the other prince to tea more often, tries to share with him softer moments that in the end just add fuel to the fires of the Xander's heart. Ryoma also subtly, casually, asks his youngest sister for advice in regards to teas, and he also manages to find out Xander's favorites from the youngest Nohrian princess.

 

The efforts rewarded him, too. He is met with a quiet exclamation of surprise from Xander when he smells the familiar aroma. Pride flows through Ryoma just as the aroma fills the air around them, and the settle onto the cushions in front of the kotatsu. Xander admittedly is not quite used to the transition of sitting down with as much grace as Ryoma seems to move, but he makes up for it with an awkward smile.

 

“How did you find out?” the Nohrian prince asks, the vaguest hints of his smile still trailing across his features.

 

“From your youngest sister,” Ryoma answers honestly, bringing his cup to his lips to take a drink. It tasted as soothing as it smelled, a combination of roses and chamomile that spread through the senses gently. “She was quite curious when I asked,” the Hoshian adds, hiding his amused smile behind his cup, but his tone is enough of a give away to the signs of mischief.

 

Xander only laughs, though it is mostly a weak exhale through his nose, and he shakes his head before taking a drink from his cup of tea as well. Of course his youngest sister would be the one Ryoma went to; the most eager and easily the friendliest of all the Nohrian siblings (only possibly rivaled by Corrin herself).

 

They sit quietly as they drink the tea, only talking once in a while, and the entire experience was so therapeutic Xander wandered if he was possibly dreaming. Their conversation began as polite, as they often do, asking of their soldiers, how they both were adjusting, asking about each other retainers, and steadily they began to open up to more intimate things. It was always so soothing when they spoke, almost mirroring how the tea they shared slowly relaxed the nerves, or perhaps like a flower blooming if he were to retain his more poetic train of thought.

 

“It's very kind of you to host me so often Prince Ryoma, thank you,” Xander says, aimlessly brushing his fingers over the smooth texture of their tea cups. His very slight smile has returned, always overshadowed by his intimidating display of trained commander and valiant prince. But that in and of itself, to know the softer sides of Xander's heart, thrills Ryoma in the way that young love takes hold wildly and ever so sweetly. It is not so much possession so much as it is pure joy to be privy to something so rare, so tender.

 

“It is my pleasure,” Ryoma answers with a smile. He contemplates saying more as they make eye contact, but words silently escape him and he is left with nothing but his heartbeat. It is almost mesmerizing, simply sitting there lost in each other, and it is as if time itself slows down for the both of them as they soak in the other's presence.

 

Xander is the one who breaks the silence, clearing his throat and looking away, his cheeks having steadily become dusted with a warm red color as they adored one another. “I, uh, I received your last letter,” he says, though it is a clumsy leading move into a dance around their hearts.

 

Ryoma hums in acknowledgment, casually letting his gaze fall, mostly to allow the Nohrian prince a moment to gather his courage. “I.. thought it best to reply to you in person,” he hears Xander say, his voice hesitant but clear, a tell-tale sign that he would take the reigns of his composure as a prince and less a lover (which Ryoma loved as well).

 

“I think it was quite obvious, now that I look back,” he says, a soft chuckle punctuating his words. “I'm surprised you tolerated my poeticism for so long, really.”

 

“It was endearing,” Ryoma answers him without skipping a beat, still as honest as ever. “It was probably what lead me to fall for you so quickly,” he adds outright, the admittance to their topic making Xander's cheeks blush.

 

Xander chuckles once again, his heart almost leaping from his chest into the palm of the prince in front of him. “I suppose it goes without saying that I... I am indeed fond of you,” he says, yet another loving smile gracing his lips.

 

“Finally, you admit to it outright,” Ryoma teases, his smile spreading over his lips wide enough that dimples form in his cheeks. It makes Xander's heart soften, his gaze momentarily falling to the table between them before returning to the Hoshian. “I love you, too, my nightingale prince,” Ryoma says to Xander in perhaps the sweetest voice he has heard yet.

 


End file.
